Indelible
by handful of sky
Summary: A little knowledge is a dangerous thing. So is a lot. Joan has left her mark on Sherlock, and things will never be the same between them.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: What's more fun than writing Elementary fan fiction? Writing it with someone else whose work you respect and admire! CharmingNotDarling and I have been hard at work on a joint venture, and she's graciously allowed me to post it under my pseudonym instead of creating a new one solely for this story. Keep in mind that every review will be doubly appreciated, and please consider visiting her page and checking out all the wonderful works she has to offer!

Disclaimer: We do this for love, not for profit!

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**Indelible**

Sherlock holds himself perfectly still in the dark silence of the brownstone, processing the events of the day (and night) while watching Watson sleep. This is hardly aberrant behavior on his part, but tonight his perspective is vastly different from what he's used to. Her hair is splayed out across her pillow, just as he's seen it on many other occasions, only this time some of the finer strands stir slightly with each of his exhalations. Her chest rises and falls with the same slow regularity he's witnessed previously, but now he feels the movement as much as he sees it, the fingers of his right hand slotted snugly into the small creases between her ribs.

His body yearns for sleep, but his mind is racing, spinning deliriously with all of the input that it's received over the last few hours. He's always known Watson to be graceful and generous and strong, and, if anything, those qualities have only been magnified in his estimation. But now he's also aware of the way the timbre of her voice changes when she's whispering encouragement into his ear instead of admonishing him for his lack of tact. He knows the feel of her clever, articulate fingertips tattooing the length of his spine, the way her hair cascades between her shoulder blades when she arches her back, and what it's like to wake up with the taste of her still on his tongue. He flooded his senses with her, and she spurred him on, urging him to know her body every bit as intimately as he does her mind. The only thing that she failed to share of herself is any clue as to what this might mean to the course of their relationship.

His logical side questions why this need fundamentally change things between them, while a softer voice, one that he thought had died along with Irene, wonders, _How could it not?_ How could either of them ever be satisfied with anyone else, with anyone _less_ than what they are to each other?

Perhaps this is merely the latest in a long line of gradual changes in their relationship. They've evolved from client/companion to mentor/apprentice to a full partnership. This latest transition was fueled by her discovery of a detail he'd overlooked in one of his cold cases. In her excitement, she'd thrown her arms around his neck and hugged him hard. Her exuberance quickly gave way to excitement of a different sort altogether.

He thinks he may have kissed her first, although, in retrospect, it was likely something of a tie. He _knows_ that she had his shirt untucked well before his hands slid up underneath her top to investigate the satiny skin at the small of her back. She was the one who broke that first, fevered kiss to peer up at him intently. Clad in stocking feet, she was small in stature, but not in presence nor in courage. Eyes bright, cheeks flushed, and lips swollen and slightly parted as they both gasped for breath, she'd studied him for several seconds. Just as he was on the verge of preparing an abject apology, she'd taken him by the hand and led him here, into her bedroom.

She stirs briefly beside him before settling back into sleep. Too restless to join her, he eases out of the bed and gently tucks the covers in beside her before searching for his clothing. Barring one sock, he manages to find everything and dresses quietly before settling himself into her armchair.

Even in the dim light, he can still make out the silhouette of one slim leg protruding out from beneath the sheets. It's hidden now, but there's a small mole high up on the inside of that thigh, and he can't help but wonder if there are others that still remain secret. Sherlock is accustomed to the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake—the thrill of learning new things has always been a neverending source of fascination for him—but this is altogether different. This is more than simple knowledge. She's gifted him with her body and entrusted him with her affection.

_Affection_. He scoffs at himself. That's what the small, shallow part of him is comfortable naming it, but he knows full well that she would never have risked their friendship or their partnership out of a simple fondness for him. The stakes are too high for both of them. No, there's more to it, but he can't yet bring himself to name it, not until he knows that she doesn't have any regrets.

He gets to his feet and walks quietly back to her side of the bed. If he were to wake her with a kiss, how would she respond? She needs to rest, they both do, but he finds himself fighting the urge to do it anyway, full of a mad hope that she'll smile and welcome him into her arms and reassure him that they're still okay. Instead, he settles for touching her hair one last time before leaving her room and padding down the hall and toward the kitchen, feeling the chill of the floor every time his bare foot makes contact with the wood.

He's just finished filling the kettle and putting it on the stove to heat, when he hears the slamming of a car door coming from the front of the brownstone. It's unusual activity for this time of the morning, and he goes to investigate. Before he gets near a window with an appropriate vantage point, however, the doorbell chimes and is followed by a series of heavy knocks at the front door. Sherlock opens it to find a uniformed police officer on the stoop.

"Everything okay in here?" the officer asks as he casts his eyes around the foyer.

"Of course," he answers testily. "Were you expecting otherwise?" It suddenly occurs to him that Watson had been substantially more, well, _vocal _than he'd expected, given her usual reserved demeanor. "Was there a noise complaint, officer?"

"Nah," the burly uniform replies. "Captain Gregson sent me out here to get you since you weren't answering your phones and we had a couple of bodies drop. He wants you and your partner to take a look at the scene before the rain comes in."

As if on cue, thunder rumbles long and low in the distance.

"What's going on?"

Watson pads softly down the stairs, wearing a pair of pyjama bottoms and a loose t-shirt.

"Officer..."

"Kirkpatrick," the man fills in helpfully.

"...has come to take us to the scene of a murder. It seems we were both negligent in keeping our phones near us."

"I see," she says quietly as the memories of exactly why they were otherwise occupied flit across her features before she schools them back into inscrutability. "I guess we'd better get ready, then." She walks back toward her room without another word or glance, leaving Sherlock completely in the dark as to what the last several hours might have meant to her or to their future.

_End of Chapter 1_


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much for the warm response to the first chapter! Things are progressing more slowly than we'd like, but the story is still moving forward and we're committed to seeing it through to the conclusion. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Elementary doesn't belong to us and no infringement is intended.

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**Indelible, Chapter 2**

She wakes to a silence to still to be shared: to an empty bed, an empty chair, and the achy, empty chambers of her heart—a heart that, only hours before, was filled with passion and the prospect of affection. She takes a moment to wonder if the night was real, if the memories are only fragments of a dream, fantasies never meant to come true.

But as the sleep fades from her mind, she remembers finding herself teetering on the edge of consciousness throughout the night, each time the inky air nearly humming with his presence. Just the whispering of the sheets as he breathed or the gentle press of his skin to hers as he shifted in sleep set the night aflame with sensation. She runs her fingers along her ribs, swears she still feels the warmth of his palm and press of his fingers. The fact that he was content enough, felt safe enough to sleep beside her, stirs something in her too great to name.

But that's all gone now.

The shadows are thick with the lack of light. Dawn has yet to show its face, but she knows morning is all but on its way. She shifts to sit, feels the sheets tug where he'd tucked them around her before he'd left the room. She draws her palms across her face, presses the tips of her fingers to her eyes as the chilled air draws goose bumps along her exposed skin.

How could she think this would end any differently?

She throws herself back down, her hair spilling and pooling across the pillows and sheets. She catches his scent on the pillow and instinctively turns towards it. She thinks back to the moments that brought her here: to the opened trunk of cold cases, the papers and glossy photos spilled across the library floor, to the sound of Tchaikovsky's Violin Concerto in D major bleeding through the mortar and brick of the brownstones walls. It seemed to be one of his favorites of late. (Or maybe he'd become overly aware of what the melody did to her inside, how the notes flowed like a potion in her veins.) The exaggerated and broken sounds appeared to be a metaphorical mirror to the spectrum of their moods; she only wishes she'd understood what his heart longed to say with the gorgeous sounds drifting down the hall. She's become all too well versed in what hers would voice in return.

She had been so engulfed in her reading that at first the quieting of the house did not register: his footfalls, the kettle's cry, the groans of wooden protests as he treaded stairs to prepare their tea. In the end she can't be sure who had truly initiated the kiss. They'd startled each other; he'd set her mug down as she'd reared up from the floor, one nearly throwing the other off balance. She'd held her findings out with victory set in her stance, and, once she'd seen the pride in his eyes, she'd thrown her arms around him and engulfed him in an impromptu hug. Not her usual reactions to such accomplishments, but their lives have been anything but usual.

All she can remember from then on was the press of her lips to his skin and the sharp intake of breath in her ear. He's never outwardly calm or gentle with much of anyone or anything but Clyde (and that's just occasional) so when he'd gripped her hip, cupped her cheek, she'd been taken completely by surprise.

It could very well be her imagination, but she would swear the sheets are still warm. She longs for the brush of those talented fingers, the taste of him, the sounds of proof that she possessed the ability to do to him what he's done to her.

This shift in the angle of their world is immeasurable.

She knows well enough he's not one for all the emotional attachment sex can demand when there's a mutual, fathomless respect involved. That his desires do not run deep enough to form attachments to those rooted in devotion. She knew this going in, reminded herself only moments before falling into bed with him, leaving everything else behind.

She'd spent so much time wondering what last night would be like, she'd forgotten to dedicate any thought to what the consequences might be on the morning after. She'd always assumed they'd go about their daily lives, nothing too great or significant for him to derail his dedication to justice, but the bitter taste of rejection seems to overpower the sweetness of acceptance. She laughs bitterly at herself for the truly female reaction to waking up alone after falling asleep with his fingers tangled in her hair and her heartstrings tangled in the tossed sheets. She's never been that woman; never been the one to make madness out of methods.

The chime of the doorbell, followed by the demanding knocking, forces her to realize why she's awake. It would appear someone's come looking for them in the middle of the night. It's then that she realizes she has no phone. She's pretty sure it's downstairs with her forgotten tea and her triumph.

Obviously, sleep is no longer an option. She tosses the covers back and throws on some pajamas before heading downstairs.

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She heads back upstairs to her room and dresses quickly and with little fuss. The last year and a half have her very well-versed in unexpected and urgent calls. She hears a far-off roll of thunder and reaches for her boots at the last minute.

When she takes the stairs down moments later, Officer Kirkpatrick has gone back to his marked car at the curb and only Sherlock remains. He's got a phone in each hand and her raincoat tossed over his arm as he taps furiously at his own device. His eyes meet hers repeatedly in the shadows cast by the cruiser's red and blue light and between his rapid typing.

"Ah, wonderful, you're ready."

She watches him slip the phone away again and hold her slicker out as if nothing has changed. It isn't until she's standing right beside him, before she turns to slip her arms into the waiting sleeves, that she sees the concentration tightly laced within his features. His brow furrowed, lips tight, shoulders rigid; it empties her already-barren heart to know how hard he's fighting to continue on with their norm. She wants to shake him, or better yet kiss him senseless, but she knows better than most that he's already buried deep beneath the heavy blanket of mystery this midnight case has cast upon them.

He slips the coat in place as he's done a thousand times before, and, just as his hands would normally fall away, she feels his fingers at the base of her neck, pulling gently until her hair is free from the coat's collar. The contact is startling and reassuring at the same time, and he turns for the door as if nothing out of the ordinary has happened.

So she does as she has always done, and follows him out into the night.

_end of chapter 2_


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